


your heart’s a mess

by humanveil



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Collars, Dom/sub, M/M, PWP, Submission, this is stupid soft everyone look away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25841218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Stephen’s request comes in the form of a tired smile and a collar held in hand.
Relationships: Stephen Strange/Victor von Doom
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	your heart’s a mess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_casual_cheesecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_casual_cheesecake/gifts).



> this is a fic that originated in the doomstrange discord about a year ago. it’s been sitting half-finished in the notes on my phone since, but i got struck with the need to complete it today so… here we are. enjoy!
> 
> there’s also a little bit of _breathplay_ , but not enough that i want to tag for it. consider this a warning!

Stephen stands in the entryway of Victor’s study, gaze fixed on where Victor sits, his usual armour gone in favour of casual attire; a green night robe sits loose around his shoulders, his mask removed, the criss-cross of bandages taking its place. The fire crackles behind him, flames dancing in hues of red, orange, yellow, their glow acting as the room’s main source of light. 

Stephen feels it already, the relief he’d come seeking just out of reach. His skin tingles with the desire to submit.

Victor’s reaction is not quite the same. He is defensive on instinct, a lifetime of battle leaving its mark. He stiffens when he feels Stephen approach, his back straight and rigid; it’s a stark reminder that outside of their arrangement, Victor is still Doctor Doom, a man more than worthy of being feared.

“You’re trespassing, Strange,” Victor starts. “You—”

Stephen smiles; he can’t help it. It’s a tired curve of his mouth, the expression brimming with a fondness he tries to conceal. He shifts so his arms are in front of him, the silver buckle of the collar in his hands catching in the firelight. It cuts Victor off mid-sentence, and Stephen’s smile widens: triumphant.

This is a game they play. They’re not exactly lovers, Stephen thinks, nor friends, though animosity had settled to amiability a long time ago. At the bare minimum, they can give each other what the other needs.

Some of the tension leaves Victor as realisation dawns on him. He doesn’t relax entirely—that is a scarce sight, one Stephen has only had the pleasure of seeing a few times—but it doesn’t matter. He’s come to expect this, to enjoy it. _Crave it_. Victor leans in his seat as if it were his throne, the sweeping glance he gives sending goosebumps down Stephen’s skin.

Even without the armour, the image he makes leaks with power.

Victor beckons him forward with a crook of his finger. “Strip.”

The single word is almost enough to take Stephen’s breath away. There is no room for debate in Victor’s voice; it carries the command completely. The promise in his tone sends a shiver down Stephen’s spine, and he obeys intrinsically, his garments removed and hung over the arm of a spare chair. When Stephen looks, Victor has pulled a pillow from his desk draw. Plush and green, it rests on the floor at his feet.

“Come, pet,” Victor says. “Kneel.”

Stephen doesn’t hesitate. He drops to his knees at Victor’s feet, revelling in the heat of Victor’s gaze on him. He knows he must look beautiful.

Beneath the pillow, the floor of Victor’s study is cold and hard and wholly welcome. Relief unravels in the pit of his stomach, slowly spreading through every inch of his body, and Stephen feels a gasp catch in his throat as pleasure simmers in his abdomen. Victor takes the collar from him, and Stephen shuts his eyes, his head bowed: the perfect picture of submission. The collar is fixed silently, Victor’s fingers barely brushing Stephen’s skin; it’s enough to warm Stephen from the inside out, his skin flushing as the buckle falls into place, the collar tight around his throat.

“Rough day, Doctor?” Victor asks. There’s a mocking edge: slight, but there. Stephen’s ashamed to admit it sparks arousal.

He nods, a silent admission. It doesn’t begin to cover it, he thinks. He’s overworked and overwrought, his body and mind cracking under pressure. He _needs_ this. Needs Victor. Needs what he provides: a place for vulnerability without consequence. A _safe_ place. Somewhere to be _owned_.

It’s almost terrifying how much he aches for it.

There’s a rustle, soft cloth brushing bare skin. Victor trails a finger across the collar adorning Stephen’s neck: a quiet act of approval. “I’ll tend to you when I’m done,” he says. Another shiver runs down Stephen’s spine.

A tug on his collar sends him forward, forehead hitting Victor’s thigh as Victor returns to his leather-bound books. Stephen swallows the moan that sits in his throat and allows himself to let go, to float, to let submission embrace his mind and soul. He focuses on the weight of his collar and the comfort it brings. Crafted from expensive leather, it’d been a gift: proof that he was owned, Victor had said when presenting him with it, the pendant marked with Latveria’s crest a personal touch. More than that, though, it was proof of Victor’s desire. The thought alone is enough to make Stephen sink further into his submission.

Like this, with the collar on, he has handed himself to Victor. The act is liberating; there is no room for worry or doubt or fear. There is only Victor. Only the knowledge of his ownership and the safety that comes with that. Only the background noise of Victor returning to his work: the rustle of parchment, the crackle of the fire, breathing, soft and low, his own heartbeat. Stephen shifts to kneel comfortably, a sea of nothingness playing behind his eyelids, mirroring that in his mind. 

He wants to feel like this forever. 

He doesn’t know how long it is before the sound of Victor working stops; he doesn’t care to. He’s happy to kneel for however long Victor will have him, happy to stay here, like this, basking in the gentle light of the fire, its warmth nothing compared to the way his body burns under Victor’s control. 

A book hits the desk with a quiet thud, Victor’s chair creaking as the leg Stephen rests on shifts. Stephen waits with baited breath. He doesn’t expect to feel fingers in his hair: the touch almost tentative. A low whine is ripped from Stephen’s throat as Victor slides his fingertips from his hairline to the nape of his neck, nails scratching his scalp. The pressure is almost enough to hurt: an act of intimacy in Victor’s language. It makes Stephen ache with want. 

“Look at you,” Victor says. His hand drops, fingers sliding over Stephen’s neck. They slip beneath the collar and pull the material tight, almost enough to cut off circulation. Victor keeps it that way until Stephen gasps, eyes blinking open as his head tilts back. He looks at Victor through fluttering eyelashes, mouth parted in a stuttered breath. Victor’s lips twitch with appreciation. “Stunning.”

Victor’s voice is warm with the approval Stephen craves. He can’t help but squirm. “Thank you,” he says, barely a breath but filled with meaning. It’s more than Victor’s words, it’s the fact that he’s here at all. That’s he’s allowed to be. That Victor welcomes it, takes on what Stephen still considers a burden without any complaint at all.

Victor hums, the kind that means, _of course._ “You’ve done well, Doctor,” he adds. It’s almost casual. Would be, if not for the position they’re in. If not for the way Victor parts his robe and reveals his tented pants, his cock hard and straining against the fabric. He reaches to pull himself out, free hand cupping the back of Stephen’s head and pulling him forward. 

Victor calls it a reward, but Stephen barely hears as he swallows the cock, mouth stretching around Victor’s prick while sensation sets his body on fire. He takes as much of Victor as he can, every shift of his head commanded by Victor’s hold. His own cock is hard against his stomach, but Stephen ignores it: he seeks nothing in return, only the satisfaction that comes with knowing he’d caused Victor’s pleasure. Only the peace that comes with knowing he’d served him well.

Victor won’t offer anything, either. Stephen knows this. Knows that Victor understands what it is he comes here for. It’s part of what makes him so fond of the other man.

When Victor comes, it’s with a quiet grunt, his hand tightening in Stephen’s hair as he holds him close. Stephen willingly swallows everything Victor has to give, Victor’s pleasure leaking into his own. As his breath settles, Victor’s hold eases. He whispers in Latverian, and though Stephen doesn’t understand the exact meaning, he knows what Victor is saying is praise. He’s heard it before and recognises the tone; it makes his chest tighten with feelings he won’t put a name to. 

He slumps against Victor’s side, feeling sated despite his still-hard cock. 

Stephen won’t stay the night—they’re not there yet, Stephen thinks—but Victor will keep him around until the early hours of the morning, and that alone is enough to keep Stephen going. There isn’t much else he can ask for.


End file.
